


The Dragon's Cat

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Gen, Humor, Not To Be Taken Too Seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 07:23:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11286459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Temeraire gets a cat, or something, and Laurence is clearly not in charge here.





	The Dragon's Cat

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this on tumblr for ages but I never bothered to post it here, whoops

“I have named him Galileo, and therefore he is mine,” Temeraire says. “Is that not how it works?”

At Laurence’s feet the cat meows.

“Well,” says Laurence.

He is fairly certain most dragons are not concerned with cats, except for the possibility of eating them; he looks around for help but only finds Granby grinning at him and Emily Roland trying to coach the thing away to be petted. The cat hisses at her. A few loitering midwingmen scatter when they see Laurence’s searching gaze, leaving them further alone, and he sighs.

He turns his attention back to Temeraire. “My dear, I think that it would be… difficult,” he says delicately, “For you to care for a cat. For one matter, they are very small.”

“Yes, but so are you,” Temeraire says. “And I take care of you perfectly well, do I not?”

“Very true,” Granby concurs, because his crew is terrible.

“But cats are different,” Laurence gropes desperately.

“I hardly see why; it can even hunt, which is more than most humans can do, except the clever ones,” says Temeraire generously. “ - Not that you _need_ to hunt, Laurence, because of course I would do it for you.”

“Here, kitty, kitty,” says Roland.

The cat promptly jumps onto Temeraire’s forearm and begins to circle around. It lays down, feet folded, and watches them narrowly. Tiny hazel eyes glower from the darkness. Against the backdrop of Temeraire’s fur the black cat almost disappears.

“You see, he wants to stay,” says Temeraire delightedly.

Laurence sighs. “Do you think it might not be dangerous here for an animal,” is his last attempt.

“Of course not, Laurence, I will keep him perfectly safe. And I do not see why anyone should shoot at him when we are fighting, because he is only a cat.”

Laurence pauses. “Fighting?”

* * *

 

The cat is not supposed to be here.

Laurence left him behind – he did. The cat was sitting on the ground when Temeraire leaped into the air, he is sure of it. But plainly he was wrong. Cadet Roland struggles to loop a makeshift harness across the poor creature’s abdomen before it slips away with a plaintive growl.

Laurence also didn’t know that cats _could_ growl.

“Fine,” Roland mutters, plainly over her fascination with the cat. “Sorry, Sir.” She scoops it up; the cat yawns and peers unconcernedly over Temeraire’s shoulder.

Temeraire, himself, keeps glancing back with a distinctly satisfied air. Somewhat more annoyed than he should like to admit, Laurence calls, “Eyes forward, Temeraire – Lily is signaling.”

One of her ensigns, rather, is waving the familiar signals indicating enemies ahead. Temeraire straightens immediately and beats his wings harder.

Granby comes up beside Laurence. “Perhaps we can fling it at the French,” he suggests lowly.

“That would certainly be a novel tactic,” Laurence imagines the confusion on-board. “I fear Temeraire would be heartbroken, however. Please tell Mr. Ferris to ready the riflemen.”

As this proceeds the enemy gains a definite shape. It is a small formation, by one manner of speaking; eleven dragons and none of them heavy-weight. Laurence frowns uneasily. An odd group.

Granby curses suddenly. “There’s a Plein-Vite resting on that Papillion – do you see? This group is meant for speed. Can’t be for what I think, it’s suicide.”

Laurence learns all too well what he means as the French dragons come upon them in a wild flurry of movement. There is no organization, no finesse; but in the distance Maximus and then Lily rise and slide away from the main conflict. Messoria shortly follows, circling at a distance. They have all been boarded.

And in a moment’s work a vividly green Garde-Lyon slashes at Temeraire’s back before lifting away. She leaves behind a dozen officers who land heavily on the Celestial’s harness. Three of them fall onto Temeraire’s shoulders near the front. A fourth, nearby, bounces off the dragon’s neck and plunges screaming to the open air below.

Midwingmen Stroud dies with one shot to his face. Midwingmen Pryor, Laurence’s remaining guard, raises his own pistol and manages a panicked shot that goes entirely astray before he is cut down by the end of a bayonet.

Laurence can’t be shot – no one will shoot a captain. But if a Frenchman will try to take him prisoner, they have implicitly agreed to that handicap of fighting, and Laurence will not bind himself by someone else’s rules when Temeraire is at stake. He takes his own pistol and fires at one of the two soldiers -  a lieutenant – and hits the man squarely on the shoulder.

“Whatever is going on,” Temeraire says anxiously. “Laurence, Laurence, is everything well?”

Both men raise their bayonets when Laurence throws away his pistol. He withdraws his sword as a third Frenchman stumbles toward the group.

Laurence dares a quick glance toward the sky and the greater conflict. Maximus and Lily seem to have repelled their invaders; Messoria, too, has rejoined the formation to fend off the French dragons. Most of them are turning slowly and reluctantly, perhaps not yet ready to leave the officers on Temeraire.

By all accounts the French have failed, so long as Temeraire is not taken. So long as Laurence is not taken.

He holds his sword in front of him more confidently than he feels. The harness carabiners press into his skin from behind, sadly entangled. Laurence has no room to maneuver.

Before the Frenchmen can move, a black snarl of fur blurs in front of them.

One of the men yelps and actually falls over. Taking the advantage, Laurence disarms the second man, who only blinks at him stupidly. He stands with his sword raised and tilted until Granby, wide-eyed with alarm, scrambles up to cart the pair away.

Laurence looks down. The black cat looks up at him and waves its tail.

“Oh, very well, Galileo,” he sighs. “But we must get you a proper harness.”

The cat hisses.


End file.
